


Hic Sunt Dracones

by Devilc



Series: Ad Altiora Tendo -- I strive towards higher things [6]
Category: Pilgrimage (2017)
Genre: Irish history, M/M, Monks, Pre-Slash, Priests
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-09
Updated: 2018-04-09
Packaged: 2019-04-20 20:52:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14269299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Devilc/pseuds/Devilc
Summary: On their third night at the priory, Gosmungo shakes them awake shortly before Lauds.  He holds a finger to his lips to indicate the need for silence. "Get your shoes on. Gather your things."  His voice is barely audible, but there is no mistaking the urgency.  He guides them out of the room and into a dark corridor before he speaks again in a breathless whisper.  "There are men at the gates asking questions.  I bought a few moments by telling them I needed to fetch the Prelate."





	Hic Sunt Dracones

**Author's Note:**

> The Pilgrimage is copyright its respective owners; this is a work of whatiffery and a labor of love, not lucre.

_Hic sunt dracones -- here there be dragons_

* * *

On their third night at the priory, Gosmungo shakes them awake shortly before Lauds. He holds a finger to his lips to indicate the need for silence. "Get your shoes on. Gather your things." His voice is barely audible, but there is no mistaking the urgency. He guides them out of the room and into a dark corridor before he speaks again in a breathless whisper. "There are men at the gates asking questions. I bought a few moments by telling them I needed to fetch the Prelate." 

The feeble and flickering light of Gosmungo's oil lamp shows a Diarmuid gone as pale as milk, but his voice remains steady as he speaks: "Whose men?"

"I did not linger long enough to ask questions, but they're Norman, and the men they're asking about sound like the two of you. Come."

Swiftly and quietly Gosmungo leads them through the kitchens, stuffing two loaves of bread and a small wheel of cheese into a bag before grabbing an unlit torch and taking them into a long, dark, multi-vaulted cellar -- a legacy from when this place must have housed a Bishop -- and then, lighting the torch, he guides them through an old, half rotted door tucked into an alcove.

The passage Gosmungo takes them through is damp, cramped, and festooned with old spiderwebs. Diarmuid and Gosmungo fit (Gosmungo just barely) but he cannot stand straight. The flickering light of torch and lamp barely hold the smothering black at bay, and it brings back memories of another tunnel on the other side of the world, and then as now (as he fights against those memories back with all his might) the walls feel like they're squeezing in, and it is only after Diarmuid takes his hand that he draws in a ragged gasp -- like a drowning man breaking the surface just in time.

"Courage my friend," Diarmuid whispers, gently squeezing his hand. "It cannot be much further now, but however long it is, I am right here."

Mercifully, the air in the passage shifts just then, bringing with it the faintest smells of the waterfront: dead fish, brackish water, tar, and rotting wood. He never thought he'd be thankful for that particular stench, but he sucks in great lungfuls as Gosmungo leads them out through a rotted gate stuck ankle deep in mud and sludge. Given that the priory has a dock out front, he suspects that the creation of this tunnel pre-dates the creation of the nearby dockyard, or that a previous Bishop had goods or people he needed to move in secret, or both.

"I don't think that the Prelate or any of the Norman priests know about that door in the cellar," Gosmungo says, voice low. Bitterness laces his words as he continues, "It would mean making friends of Irishmen to find out." He pulls the hood of his cloak up to cover his bright red hair and indicates that they should do likewise.

Clouds drift over the moon as they slip along a footpath leading to the main docks and Gosmungo has them hide in a coracle (that smells like fish and leather) until he returns.

"Good news," he says when he comes back a few moments later. "A kinsman of mine is docked a few wharves down. He leaves with the morning tide."

As they trundle down the plank onto the ship, he prays that none of the men standing watch on the other boats pay too much attention to three dark robed men boarding a boat in the middle of the night. Surely their absence has been discovered by now, and if the men doing the searching have any wits about them, they'll soon hit the docks, asking questions.

The hold of the ship is small and tightly packed and there is barely enough room for them to hunker down amongst casks of wine and salt and several bolts of fine woolen cloth. He does not know what he will do if they are discovered. He has no weapon, but worse, he has neither the strength nor stamina needed for a fight.

He means to stay up, keep watch, but there is no light in the hold and the gentle motion of the boat as it rocks slightly at its moorings lulls him to sleep.

~oo(0)oo~

He wakes as the ship jolts sharply and a moment later a voice shouts orders. They must be casting off. He can feel Diarmuid and Gosmungo tucked into him, and they both groan softly as they come awake.

He wants more than anything to go above, to be in the light and open air and not the stifling, cramped darkness of the hold, but he knows they must at the very least, clear the harbor before it will be safe. Diarmuid's hand finds his, and he begins to whisper the Pater Noster under his breath. Gosmungo joins him a moment later.

~oo(0)oo~

Diarmuid and Gosmungo are in the midst of a prayer to St. Brendan the Navigator when the hatch opens and a voice tells them it's safe to come out. 

They've more than cleared the harbor. This is the sea, and the wind favors them for now.

This Fachtna McAulife's boat, and he'll take them as far as Cork, but they'll have to work in trade for their passage, since they have neither coin nor goods to barter.

"We'll get the better part of the bargain, cousin," Gosmungo says, his hazel eyes merry. "We are men of the Lord, not men of the sea. But we can pray --"

"I can cook," Diarmuid interjects. "And though my friend is still healing from his wounds and illness, he has been to sea before. He will help as much as he can." A moment later he adds, "My friend has his wits. He has but taken a vow of silence."

He closes his eyes and sighs inwardly. He was a knight and did none of the work on any boat he's ever been on, except for fighting. At best, he can swab the deck down and fetch and carry.

~oo(0)oo~

Fachtna says they should make Cork in 3 or 4 days time if this wind holds. He's aching and exhausted when the sun slips low on the horizon though he did his best to pace himself and he knows the duties were light compared to what he's seen sailors do. He forces himself to eat the salty fish brose that Diarmuid made because he knows that he needs the fuel. As soon as he finishes the bowl and the tankard of small beer, he heads for the pallets laid for them amongst the crew's berths, and, despite the way everything aches, he falls asleep almost as soon as he lays down.

Diarmuid rouses him awake some time later. "Here," he says, pressing a jar of Sister Agnes's salve into his hand. "Before you get too stiffened up." Grimly he applies it, but reaching his back is awkward at the best of times. 

Wordlessly Diarmuid takes the jar from his hands, tucks his shirt up, and begins applying it. His gasp when Diarmuid's nimble fingers begin kneading at the knotted scars is not entirely due to pain. He's rock hard and seeping by the time Diarmuid finishes, binds the jar closed, tucks it into the carry sack, and lies down next to him.

As they lie there, Diarmuid's warm back pressed to his, Diarmuid's gentle breathing providing a counterpoint to his own shuddery pants as he tries to calm his racing heart and the desire coiled through his body, he half wonders if he died on that bleak and godforsaken strand, for he cannot imagine a more exquisite hell than this.


End file.
